Fin and I are in Vegas. We flew out at noon today, she was fine, I was a blubbering mess. The last few weeks have been intense, with things hopping at Trampoline, prepping for pre-school, and the perpetual bid to find balance. Last night I lived up to my never-sleep-before-a-travel-day anxiety, puttering long into the night.
We made it, despite turbulence that had me nodding with sweaty palms and prickly underarms and thinking, “I was right. I am not going to survive.” Finley was an absolute champ, doing a little bit of nursing and a whole lot of vamping and flirting. She knows the audience on a flight is hers for the taking, dazzling them with wide, sparkling eyes and a gooey, shiny gurgley tale instead of the grating screaming they anticipate.
During one of her catnaps I even managed to thumb through the Glamour magazine I bought. Rachel Bilson, Ali Larter and Diane Lane were on the cover for a feature on being gorgeous at any age. For the trip I suspended my disbelief and let the whole rich, famous, metabolism of an amped up hummingbird and daughter of a Playmate stuff slide. I found the little interviews to be surprisingly enjoyable and I closed the magazine smiling.
Business trip to Vegas.
Impeccably behaved infant.
Flawlessly shaved and moisturized legs.
Perfect-for-me husband home with two sweet daughters.
Life was pretty good. I walked through the Vegas airport with a spring in my step and a bounce on my chest (Sly laugh, baby and breasts). I was cruising along when I heard a chorus of “Awwwws!” and I slowed, traveling with a baby comes with a responsibility–must share. So I turned to the group of women gathered childless and worry-free outside a bar and let them feast on Fin. I was giggling at their delight as one of them walked over quickly to coo directly to Fin, it was none other than Rachel Bilson.
Only in Vegas.